


Of Oranges and Winters

by prayforpiett



Category: The Young Pope (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Love Confessions, M/M, Platonic Romance, Roman Catholicism, Talking, at least sort of, no beta we die like men, shut up the new pope never happened, they lived happy ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:15:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26290246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prayforpiett/pseuds/prayforpiett
Summary: "He missed the time when their conversations weren't so awkward. Time seemed to be newly divided into Before Venice and After Venice. "An exploration of the relationship between Lenny and Gutierrez.
Relationships: Lenny Belardo/Bernardo Gutiérrez
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	Of Oranges and Winters

**Author's Note:**

> My only beta was Grammarly and I'm not a native speaker so I'm sorry if I made any mistakes.

The papal gardens smelled from the summer heat, as the last rays of the August sun caressed the soft green grass, making one more desperate attempt to turn it yellow. It was a lost cause, as the gardeners rigorously watered it, but this battle between them and the elements had been raging for centuries, so it was unlikely that one of them would miss a chance to turn the tables. No one dared to wander outside, even the nuns hid from the sun in the protection of the cool Vatican walls. Only the steady song of the cicadas echoed in the silence, as they reclaimed the righteous ownership of the place, even if just for a brief afternoon.

It was quite strange to see the gardens so empty and dead. But maybe this was exactly why the Holy Father insisted on coming here. Bernardo knew that he was clumsy at playing the everchanging yet constant game of power but even he understood that privacy was a precious treasure in the Vatican. Although his heart no longer started racing, when he thought of Voiello sitting on his bed, corrupting the sanctuary of his bedroom, he remembered the feeling well enough to be cautious. Still, the yet unsaid words hanging in the air between them made him anxious. His Holiness was never quite the same after that afternoon in Venice and Bernardo still remembered how unexpectedly light his body was as if all life had left him. There was always a kind of otherwordly beauty to him, but at that moment, Lenny Belardo seemed so utterly human that shook him to his core. He was raw flesh, fallible and wounded. Bernardo already saw the best and the worst of him before that faithful minute but the thought that he could die never entered his mind. It would have been a sobering experience if that hadn't come earlier, he thought with a self-deprecating smile.

"What are you thinking of Your Eminence?" The Holy Father asked suddenly.

"Distasteful jokes, Your Holiness."

"At your own expense?"

"I only know myself well enough to make proper jokes about."

"Then we shall try to remedy that this afternoon."

"What do you mean?"

"I want to tell a story to you."

"About whom?"

"About me."

"Forgive me, but I've never thought you'd be much for..." Bernardo trailed off, already regretting that he even started

"Jokes at my expense? Usually, you may be right. Jokes can become dangerous in the wrong hands."

"Then why take the risk?"

The Holy Father didn't answer but there was a raw tenderness to the silence and Bernardo didn't need more explanation. His heart was suddenly offbeat and he tried to remember what kind of rhythm it was supposed to be drumming but his entire body felt too hot in the rays of the scorching sun. He missed the time when their conversations weren't so awkward. Time seemed to be newly divided into Before Venice, and After Venice.

The Holy Father didn't look at him, only stared at the infinite blue sky over the Vatican walls. Bernardo appreciated the gesture. They both knew that he was less than adept at hiding his feelings and he was grateful, that His Holiness gave him privacy. It freed both of them from a long, uncomfortable discussion that they weren't yet ready for. Maybe they never would be.

"What kind of story is that you wanted to tell me, your Holiness?"  
"You'll have to tell me that when I finished. I can't be objective enough in this regard. After all - like all stories - it's about the storyteller, Your Eminence."

A slight smile flickered on his lips before he started talking, one of his unsolvable smiles that Bernardo could never make out the true meaning of. Still, he wanted to take every chance to learn their secrets.

"The first priest I've ever met was called Father Jones. I met him quite early in my life, as the nuns used to take us to mass every Sunday. It was always a rather chaotic occasion, as every child squeezed into a small bus, just so later, after many long minutes of falling on each other (as the roads were rather primitive around the orphanage), we could squeeze into an equally small church. I despised it. There were the rather obvious reasons for that, like the infantile screaming of my fellow orphans or the smell of sweating bodies on the bus but that was not enough to justify the intensity of my feelings. It was Father Jones that made me hate Sundays. At his best, he was unpleasant, at his worst, utterly idiotic and insufferable. It was as if God took all the spare scraps from the Creation and decided to make Father Jones from them. He was like a pot, glued together from shards that didn't belong together. And it seemed like I was the only one who could see that. Everyone liked at him, even Sister Mary held a begrudging respect towards him. It took me years to understand it. Besides all his flaws, he stood for the Lord. People didn't love him but they loved God. That was the time the idea of becoming a priest started to appeal to me. As the years went by, I dreamed of being many things with Andrew but this was the only idea that never truly left me. After all, what other kinds of love could I have hoped for, except the faint shadow of the love directed towards God? Maybe that's why I was drawn to Cardinal Spencer. He was like me and Father Jones. Thoroughly and utterly unpleasant. 

When I met that girl in California, I wavered for a moment. But I looked at her juggling those oranges and thought what would become of us throughout the years? Would we be like those television couples in suburban comedies? Distant, bored and mediocre? Would our silence be filled with the buzz of the television? Would she stop juggling? I didn't know. So, I traded that offering of love for a distant, intangible form of a girl, who had looked at me with loving eyes for a moment."

It seemed that even the cicadas went silent after the Holy Father stopped speaking and Bernardo suddenly became conscious of how steady and unyielding his own breathing was, compared to the thoughts that raced through him. This conversation didn't tell him anything that he didn't already know or suspect but hearing it out loud made it more real. He wanted to comfort Lenny Belardo somehow and assure him that this was not true, that he was not unlovable but the words got stuck in his throat and he swallowed them. He was too much of a coward.

He knew that his companion wouldn't speak until he gathered himself, so he took his time. He stared at the brightly coloured orbs in the trembling, shaking green until they regained their old forms, and became oranges again, hanging from the trees, ready for picking. They were beautiful, ripe and bursting with life. The nuns would soon harvest them, put them into neat little baskets and Bernardo wouldn't see them again until next year. The thought awakened an unexplainable spike of fear in his heart and suddenly, he was eager to continue their discussion, even if it was awkward, clumsy, even if it threatened to destroy the fragile bond they shared.

"I think this was a necessary story"

"What do you mean?"

"You asked me what kind of story it was, your Holiness. I think it was a necessary one."

"And why is that?"

"Because... if you forgive my bluntness, misconceptions usually have to be said out loud to be disproven."

Bernardo swallowed before continuing and Lenny Belardo regarded intently him with the morbid expression of a test subject in some gruesome experiment, waiting for his results.

"I think there is no unlovable human being. Our species is capable of awful, horrible things but we are also capable of infinite love. It doesn't depend on how deserving the people in question of our affection. Love is not something to be measured and given out like meat at the butcher's. We are... flawed beings but if God really created us in his own image, then I believe that this is our true inheritance. Even the most inconsequential beggar is loved by someone, who'd be sad if they disappeared from their usual corner. I believe existence itself always brings love with it, we just need to find it and recognise it."

"That's an interesting theory, Your Eminence."

Bernardo thought of ripe oranges and winters as he locked eyes with Lenny Belardo and before he could stop himself, the words were already out of his throat.

"It indeed is. But theories need to be tested out, to be confirmed."

So he grabbed Lenny's hand and their sweaty fingers intertwined instantly as if they were two statues, meant to hold onto each other from the moment they were created. His companion was stiff, Bernardo could feel him slightly tremble as they watched the clouds move over the Vatican but his grip was tight.

Maybe one day, they would be more. Maybe not. But for now, they just looked at the clouds.


End file.
